


Cheshire Moon

by CourierNinetyTwo



Series: Noir AU [1]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 15:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1653509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourierNinetyTwo/pseuds/CourierNinetyTwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only one place in the world to hear Pyrrha Nikos sing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cheshire Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Written off m-azing's suggestion for a Blake/Pyrrha noir AU.

Blake lit the tip of an unfiltered Schnee Gold and inhaled. The bartender shot her a look when she blew out a ring of smoke, more irritated than impressed. It was that kind of night, everyone packed elbow to elbow at the bar, ashtrays overflowing as warm whiskey was poured by the glass and shoved down the counter to waiting hands. There was no ice to be found in the whole place, not for the witching hour show.

The Three Apples wasn’t the classiest joint in Vale, but it was the only place to hear Pyrrha Nikos sing. That meant drunk dock workers were within arm’s reach of hunters and honest-to-Dust political types. It was the perfect recipe for a front-page brawl, but there wasn’t a single one of them that wanted to risk getting kicked out before the curtain opened. She only played on Fridays and a week was a long time to go without that three-octave siren’s call deep in their bones.

When the top lights went off and a glow was cast on the stage, someone let out a whoop of excitement before the entire bar went quiet, breaths held in unison. A few huffs and chuckles followed when Pyrrha’s piano man came out, his blonde hair slicked back but his bow tie a bit loose. Jaune was his name, barely old enough to earn the whiskers on his chin, although that didn’t stop him from playing up and down the ivories like one of the old greats had possessed his fingers. Blake knew he was a good kid, even if he had a habit of getting in over his head.

His warmups started out slow and worked up to jaunty, imitating an old sailor’s song as the keys were tuned. Even if it wasn’t their type of music, there were still several tapping feet under the tables; Pyrrha had personally thrown out the last patron who told Jaune to play something new or hurry up to the main event. There was nothing like a six foot tall dame in heels hoisting the mayor’s aide out onto the concrete, leaving him to stumble out home without tripping over his own twenty Lien shoes.

Jaune tightened his bow tie and shook his head, taking a breath before breaking into an  _ostinato_  pattern, the quickening weave of notes announcing it was time. The curtains parted once more, the first glimpse of an olive thigh earning murmurs of awe. Plenty of singers wore something slinky or showed a bit of skin, but even a godless man would whisper a prayer at the sight of Pyrrha Nikos taking the stage, looking like a bronze sculpture brought to life.

A mass of crimson hair was barely held in a web of golden mesh, the emerald teardrops adorning her ears nothing compared to the pure, bright green of her eyes. With a dress and lipstick to match and a lattice of tiny gold links pouring over both shoulders, there wasn’t a patron in the whole bar who could think of looking away.

Blake choked back a cough; she’d held in the smoke of her cigarette a few seconds too long.

Pyrrha stepped up to the microphone, smile projecting fifty thousand watts and yet still entirely sincere. “Welcome to the Three Apples. I’ll be your host for the last part of the night.”

Somewhere in the crush of the crowd, someone shouted, “Pyrrha!”

Her mouth quirked just a degree to the side, amusement restrained. “We won’t be having any arguments or anything tonight, will we, boys? These stilettos aren’t for show.”

That sent plenty of murmurs through the room; Blake caught one or two  _no ma’ams_ from further down the bar. Pyrrha took their unanimous agreement as her cue, eyes closing halfway before her lips parted for the first note of the performance. Place an average joe with a full brass section in one of the best arenas in the kingdom and he might have been able to belt out a song or two without busting everyone’s ears, but Pyrrha needed no accompaniment except Jaune’s sedate piano, every key he struck following her voice up and down the register, amplifying the sound like an ancient chorus. She could set grown hunters to weeping with a war ballad, only to seduce everyone within earshot with a sultry serenade.

Blake had heard the song too many times to count, had every lilt and fall memorized like the curved trigger of Gambol Shroud, but that didn’t lessen the effect. Pyrrha was enchanting; there was simply no other word for it. Only when the last note trailed off did Blake remember to stub out the cigarette hanging limply from her mouth, nearly dabbing it in the whiskey instead of the ashtray. She considered lighting up another, the burn of tobacco as much a habit as a comfort, but Pyrrha didn’t smoke, and that stilled Blake’s hand. It was bad for the voice or something. Instead, she settled back against her seat, letting the single malt soothe her throat in place of another gasper.

Every week, it was over too soon. Pyrrha gave encores — or three — when the crowd asked politely, but eventually the bar had to close, last rounds passed out before the taps were turned off. Jaune’s fingers stilled against the piano, the smile he cast Pyrrha’s way as she bowed out nothing short of worship. He swept up his playbook and gave a bow of his own, pulling the lid down over the keys before disappearing into the back. The applause didn’t die until a minute after the curtains closed, as if enough celebration might draw Pyrrha back out to the stage, but the bouncers were starting to hustle the worst of the drunks out already, ensuring they didn’t get over-excited and make a mess of the old wooden floor.

Blake let out a sigh, shoving the half-crushed pack of cigarettes back into her trenchcoat. She had been about to stand up when the bartender approached, something clenched in one of his fists.

“You’re that private eye, right?” He asked, heavy brow knitting. “Blackmore or something.”

“You might be thinking of another cat.” Blake said. “Name’s Belladonna.”

“Oh, right. That’s what she said.” A napkin was shoved across the bar, crumpled at the edges. “This is for you.”

Blake picked up the napkin before smoothing it against her palm. There was a single initial on the surface, placed beside a kiss mark, the shade of lipstick so very familiar. She didn’t need the code spelled out, not after this long:  _meet me in the back_. Pocketing the napkin, Blake drew out a few loose Lien, dropping the coins into the bartender’s upturned palm.

“That’s for your trouble.” Blake flashed a smile and stood up, pushing past a pair of sisters whispering about making it big time. Everyone wanted to make it big in Vale, but this city wasn’t the easy sort.

No matter how cramped The Three Apples seemed in front, it was practically a labyrinth in back, hallways barely wide enough for Blake’s shoulders twisting and turning a hundred ways. She hadn’t been able to find the dressing rooms until Pyrrha had showed her personally once; there were colored chalk lines along most of the doorways, a private key for guiding those in the know to the right place. A snort from her right made Blake reach for her piece, only to see that Jaune had left his door open a crack, already passed out on his bunk without having bothered to do more than kick off his shoes.

Pyrrha’s room was right next to it, although the door was definitely closed. There was a line of light visible at the bottom, proving it was occupied. Blake rapped twice before clearing her throat and straightening her tie; there wasn’t much she could do about her hair, having been mashed under a hat for most of the day to hide her ears from the real cop types, but Pyrrha had told her the short cut was rakish, once. Maybe the offset look would be charming.

“Blake, is that you?” Pyrrha’s voice was slightly muffled, but there was no mistaking those liquid tones for anyone else.

“Yeah, it’s me.” Blake’s hand went to the doorknob. “Can I come in?”

“It’s unlocked.” Pyrrha said.

Blake slipped inside, pushing the door closed behind her with a soft click. After a second thought, she twisted the lock above. Pyrrha could kick her out anytime, but she felt better about the fact that some jumped-up fan couldn’t stumble their way inside without any notice. Her eyes swept over the room, looking for the other woman, but at the sight of a tall silhouette behind a privacy screen made Blake’s heart start doing double-time. She stayed back near the door, not wanting to presume, eyes averted from the slice of the mirror that was in view.

“I wasn’t sure you wanted to see me.” Blake said, burying her hands in the pockets of her coat. “We kind of had it out last time.”

There was the soft sound of metal hitting wood, the drawer of a jewelry box drawn open. “Your apology was very sweet. I hope you tipped the florist.”

“Of course. Not that Nora ever wants to take my money when it comes to you.” Leaning back against the door, Blake let out a sigh. “Did you hear something new about Adam?”

Silence then, and Blake grit her teeth, knowing she had just struck a sore spot. Pyrrha said nothing until she emerged from behind the screen, dress exchanged for a plum silk robe that stopped just below the knees. All the jewelry was gone except the earrings, hair loose and flowing wildly. Blake’s breath caught in her throat and she glanced firmly at the floor, not wanting to set any more fires. The destructive kind, anyway.

“Nothing more than I heard last week.” Pyrrha’s words were soft, holding none of the judgment Blake knew she deserved. “You’re going to kill yourself chasing ghosts.”

“Adam’s not a ghost.” Blake growled. “He hurt a lot of people I care about.”

“And you already took his eyes. It’s been a year now.” Pyrrha’s fingers tilted her chin up, forcing their eyes to meet. Even without heels, the other woman had a few inches over Blake. “You look tired.”

“Nothing some black coffee in the morning won’t cure.” Blake said weakly.

“You’re staying.” Pyrrha didn’t have to insist; there was no arguing that tone. “I don’t want you driving like this.”

Fingers splayed against her jaw, cupping one dark cheek, and Blake found herself pulled her into a kiss. There wasn’t a whiskey in the world that could give the warmth of the other woman’s mouth, the infinite tenderness she could only answer with supplication. Pyrrha’s other hand found its way into her hair, threading through the short black strands before caressing just near the base of violet-lined ears. Blake let out a soft sound of relief, shoulders sagging as she slid her hands down Pyrrha’s back, feeling the heat there, even through the silk.

“Whatever you say.” Blake finally murmured when they broke apart. She was pretty sure her hair was even more of a mess now, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Blake.” Pyrrha warned. “I still need to take a bath. Have some water and cool your heels on the bed.”

“A detective’s only as good as her word, Ms. Nikos.” Blake replied wryly, but put up her hands in a gesture of surrender when one red brow arched in her direction. “Where do you want me to put my gun?”

“In the drawer next to mine.” The other woman said, turning the lock on the door. “There’s still a hook for your coat in the closet.”

With that, Pyrrha was gone, leaving nothing behind but the sweet scent of apple perfume. Blake shrugged off her trenchcoat and hung it up, careful not to ruffle the scarves and stoles worth half a year’s pay. She drew Gambol Shroud from its holster, the black-and-silver revolver shining from a recent polish, and opened Pyrrha’s bedside drawer, setting the gun alongside the other woman’s custom piece, which was small enough to fit in a handbag and yet packed a punch like a shotgun. Blake didn’t have the first idea where Pyrrha had gotten it, but she never wanted to be on the wrong side of the barrel.

Setting her shoes besides those neck-breaking heels, Blake worked open the knot of her tie, folding it into a soft coil and setting it aside. It took a few minutes to find where Pyrrha’s cups had gotten to, but she obediently filled one from the sink down the hall before returning to the dressing room, guzzling down its contents. She rolled her shoulders in a slow stretch, feeling the slight tug of her suspenders before she climbed onto Pyrrha’s bed, feeling the mattress sink luxuriously under her weight. Those she never took off herself, knowing the other woman preferred to do it personally.

When the door opened again, Blake couldn’t help a broad smile. Pyrrha was flushed from the warmth of the bath, hair dried and tossed over one shoulder. Green eyes flickered to the empty water glass before she shook her head slightly, lips quirking in a smile. The distance was closed between them with careful steps, Pyrrha stopping just short of the bed as Blake sat up, hands kept restrained at both sides.

“Don’t get any ideas about running off in the middle of the night.” Pyrrha said firmly. “I want us to have breakfast at Ren’s.”

Blake let out a soft laugh. “I can’t say no to that man’s cooking.”

They kissed again and she heard the robe fall to the floor in a whisper of silk. For one more night, Blake could let herself forget the rest of the world; it wasn’t half as bright without Pyrrha in it, anyway.


End file.
